Kaminer’s piece, Taxicab Confessions, written after the second day of a new cab-sharing program in Manhattan brought to mind some fascinating research I uncovered when working on a chapter about how relationships unfold.  It helps explain what makes sharing a small space with a stranger so intimidating and, at the same time, why we sometimes break all the rules and let it rip with someone we just met, even in a very short period of time. 

The Small Space Issue

Long ago, the famed sociologist Erving Goffman observed the many ways people have of defending themselves against strangers in public: putting belongings on an adjacent seat, burying your nose in a book or newspaper, and, more recently, talking or texting on your cell.  And in the absence of such props, we practice “civil inattention,” by staring blankly, acting as if we’re not really looking or listening. Kaminer hits on this in her piece, referring to an unwritten rule of cab-sharing: “shut up.  If anyone tries to speak, politely ignore her.”

But, as anyone who has shared a crowded elevator or subway car knows, civil inattention is a little trickier in small spaces.  Forty years ago, anthropologist Edward T. Hall theorized four human “distance zones” that correspond to increasing levels of closeness: public (twelve or more feet), social (four to twelve), personal (four to eighteen inches), and intimate (eighteen inches or less).  Some modern social scientists dispute Hall’s theory, because it doesn’t allow for individual variations in how close people stand in conversation.  But it seems to explain why most of us feel so uncomfortable in elevators, subways, or a shared taxi where we’re less than four feet apart from a stranger.

Indeed, Kaminer found that she couldn’t entice anyone to share her cab at first, even after offering to pay the full fare! And yet when she finally shares a few rides, she encounters the recent college graduate and others who are shockingly willing to share themselves and wonders,  “Why were New Yorkers so reluctant to share a cab and yet so willing to share everything else?”

Breaking the Rules of Self-Disclosure

Self-disclosure is the engine that drives new relationships. In the “initiating” stage,we size up the stranger and ask “safe” questions that we’re willing to answer ourselves–background, values, details of everyday life. As we move into the “experimenting”  stage, disclosure broadens–you touch on a number of topics. Depending on the circumstances and the two people involved, disclosure can quickly become “deep” and more revealing as well. It usually takes time to build up trust. Clearly, chemistry and common interests can hasten the process. But it also matters  where you are–and who’s next to you.

Psychologist Zick Rubin identified the aptly-named, “stranger-on-a-train” phenomenon, in which we disclose personal information to people we don’t know and probably won’t see again. We can talk about ourselves without worrying that it will get back to the people closest to us. Rubin also conducted studies in bus terminals and airport lounges that suggest we’re more likely to tell our troubles to a stranger if the other person opens up first. It’s like the old you-show-me-yours-and-I’ll-show-you-mind game that kids play.

Kaminer doesn’t reveal what she disclosed to her fellow riders, but perhaps identifying herself as a reporter was enough to get the ball rolling.  Or perhaps it was the cab itself.  After one of her co-riders tells Kaminer he sees “nothing odd about cab sharing,” he proceeds to reveal details of his life that she is sure he wouldn’t share with subway riders: “…he is on his way to his therapist’s office, which is on the same block as his wife’s therapist’s office and right next to their couple’s therapist.  Ever gotten that much information between subway stops?”

To be sure, such off-the-cuff sharing happens at the gym, in a cozy neighborhood bar or cafe–or in any type of public or commercial “being space,”where the environment is conducive to hanging out and chatting. Of course, we are more likely to open up to those closest to us, but relationship researchers find that we are also inclined to offer up bits of our private selves when we’re set apart from others, when we feel safe, and when we feel like we can get away from the other person if we need to.

So far, cab sharing in Manhattan doesn’t seem to be catching on. On the day of Kaminer’s experiment, the only takers were other journalists eager to write about the experience. Not to worry, you can still tell your troubles to the cab driver.

“In a large city where there’s a lot going on around you, it can feel very isolating and lonely. By having contact with these total strangers through the window, it’s a safe way of having a relationship without the hard part of a relationship.”

Of course, you who follow this blog or have read the book already know that strangers can morph into consequential strangers–the wash ‘n’ wear relationships of everyday life that also require little maintenance–and then travel along the relationship continuum toward the more intimate end.  Julie Scelfo, who wrote the Times piece, makes this point, too:

“Those who don’t mind watching and being watched, though, sometimes find that good things can come of it.”

Scelfo recounts the story of  Debrah Pearson Feinn, a Soho artist who, for several months, had an “anonymous relationship” with a painter living across the street. It began when he started observing her at work.  Finally, Pearson Feinn, said, the other painter

“called me and said ‘Hi, I wanted to introduce myself.’  We literally started a friendship,” she continued, “and he came over and had dinner with me and my husband.”

And so, they went from stranger to consequential stranger and, as Scelfo reports, “More than 30 years later, they’re still friends.”

Related posts about the relationship continuum:

Getting Stuck on the Word Stranger?

Can An Intimate Become a CS

Test: Friend or Consequential Stranger

I was determined that this trip would be different.  Haven’t I written advice about raising your social IQ? I can’t say I’ve been totally successful in breaking through the French resolve, but people do seem “nicer” now  And since they probably haven’t changed, I must be doing something different.  Here’s what I’ve learned:

Bring a dog with you. This is the only guarantee of starting a conversation with a stranger. In fact, I’ve learned to let my six-pound poodle walk in first.  If all of Paris is Studio 54, Bogey is on “the list,” not me. Seeing him, every waiter, every shopkeeper brightens and coos, “Ooooh. Qu’est-ce qu’il est mignon! [Isn't he sweet?] Entrez! Entrez!” and then finally looks in my direction, tolerating the human. In Paris, dogs rule–even visiting dogs sense it. Bogey trots down the street here as if he’s returned to his homeland.

Speak their language. I’m relying on my meager and long forgotten high school French, but it helps to at least try. Then again, my word retrieval is poor, my grammar poorer. I know how David Sedaris felt when he wrote about his struggle to master even rudimentary French in Me Talk Pretty One Day.  Case in point, yesterday when I accidentally bumped into someone on the street–”bumped into” as in “collided with,” not “ran into an old acquaintance”–I put on my most contrite face and blurted out, “I’m sorry to me.” Or at least I think that’s what “Je me desoler” means!

Don’t try to catch someone’s attention by smiling or making eye contact. Tightly squeezed as diners often are here, the temptation is understandable. A few nights ago, I was practically at the same table with an interesting older couple, she on the banquet next to me with barely six inches between us.  Both spoke English. Her accent was British and his sounded like my Grandpa Hymie who had emigrated from Russia.  I would glance across the table in his direction every few minutes, smile–social signals that inevitably get a conversation going in the U.S. He would have none of it. He was a master at what Erving Goffman called civil inattention–a kind of ritual ignoring of others (more on this in Chapter 5).  Undaunted by this experience, however, I have since tried to start conversation with others in this way. Young, old, rich, not so rich, they all ignore me–unless they happen not to be French (or their eyes meet Bogey’s).

Drink–and if you don’t, try not to draw attention to yourself. Alone at a cafe, I order a bottle of l’eau mineral with my lunch. “Et vin?” the waitress inquires matter-of-factly. “Non, merci,” I reply politely.  That would have been enough, but nooooo, I had to explain myself: “It’s too early,” I say cheerfully (again, that irrepressible American smile). The moment the words slip out, I want to run away. Mercifully, another waiter returns with my lunch, which is well worth the humiliation.

Put plain brown wrappers around guidebooks, maps, and dictionaries. For all the reasons stated above, it’s hardest to befriend the French when one is so obviously a tourist/foreigner–unless your dog is reading them.

The piece is worth reading.  Professor de Paulo makes some fascinating points about what she calls “intensive coupling”–the traditional view that those in a committed relationship must “be all” to one another, rather than relying on friends and acquaintances to meet some of their needs.   Having written about the alternatives in her own book, Singled Out,  she embraces the central message of Consequential Strangers: to value the connections beyond family and close friends.

I was taken by the authors’ arguments for many reasons, but most of all, because these are the very points my colleagues and I have been developing–only with regard to friends rather than acquaintances.  So now I like Consequential Strangers for another reason. I think that in a big, broad sense, it is a sign of our times.

But later in the piece, de Paulo also expresses personal reservations against having too many consequential strangers:

Personally, I do not want so many of the people on the periphery of my life acting as if they are not actually strangers. Blau and Fingerman described approvingly the “5-10 rule” of check-ins at Westin hotels: “Spend at least five minutes and walk ten steps with each guest.” I read that and made a mental note to avoid Westin hotels. When I’ve finally arrived at a hotel, weary and hungry, after a cross-country flight, a delay at the baggage claim, and a van to the hotel, I really do not want my check-in extended to five minutes. (Now if you want to offer me a cookie, as some hotels now do, that’s a different story.)

Fair enough, I say.  I appreciate Professor de Paulo’s honesty.  In fact, I’ve heard it before.  Statements like,  “I don’t need any more people in my life” and “Who has the time?” often crop up in discussions about consequential strangers.  And my personal favorite:  “I don’t want to have conversations with strangers.”

My response is two-fold:  First, of all, no one says you have to have conversations with strangers–and it’s not “strangers” we’re talking about.  (See Getting Stuck on the Word Stranger? for more on this.) The idea is to become aware of the people who are already on the periphery of your social life.  If you’re like most Americans, they far outnumber your intimates.  We spend the bulk of our time with them, and so it makes sense to value them.

Second, and most important, we don’t need a lot of consequential strangers, just variety.   All you need is a sampling of the diverse types of people you naturally encounter as you make your way through the day–during your commute, when you are at school or work, wherever you pray or play, and when you need a repair or any kind of assistance.   Each of your connections is different from you and probably different from one another.  Their backgrounds, experiences, and personal qualities broaden your own repertoire and make you realize that there are other perspectives.  They’re likely to show you ways to think and approaches to problems that you might never have considered.

So don’t stay at the Westin if you don’t want.  And don’t worry about racking up huge numbers of consequential strangers.  Just make the best of the ones you already have.  You’ll be surprised at all the cookies you’ll collect.

No, they’re consequential strangers, which is  a different word entirely.   Recently, I asked my Facebook friends (most are actually CS) for examples of similar phrases in which the meaning of the second word is completely changed by the presence of the first.  

They came up with many suggestions in which the first word modified the second, but does it completely change the meaning of the word?  A final curtain is still a curtain; a silent prayer still a prayer.  Others in that group included heavy duty, dual diagnosis, bind date, jump shot, bathing suit, and sponge bath.  (I came up with will power, which is still a power of sorts.)

They also offered other oxymorons, like jumbo shrimp (suggested by two people), along with civil war,  invisible ink, and amicable divorce.  But in each of those cases, the meaning of the second word is really just modified.  However ironcially, they’re still shrimp, ink, and divorce.  Granted, consequential strangers start out as strangers–all relationships do–but then they become something altogether different.   

The best suggestions, I think, were friendly fire, jazz fiend, smart cookie, trail blazer, military intelligence, and, when meant as an exclamation, good grief!   In each case, the second word takes on an entirely different meaning than if it stood alone.

Is there a name for such phrases? I’d really love William Safire to weigh in here.  Consequential stranger is an oxymoron, but these relationships–in scholarly circles, “weak ties” and in everyday parlance “acquaintances”–are people we know.  So if you’re listening, Mr. Safire or any other experts in our language, your input would be greatly appreciated. 

In the meantime, just remember:  Consequential strangers are not strangers! 

And if you’re wondering whether a particular person in your everyday comings and goings is a friend or consequential stranger, take this test.

What’s giving us pause about Sanford is the endless and intimate confession itself. Everyone’s asking, is he doing more harm to himself by continuing to apologize? It’s not the apology per se; it’s his delivery. He’s talking to us as if he were at his kitchen table not on national television. It’s too intimate, and it makes us uncomfortable–but we can’t turn away. Whether Sanford is just slick or truly remorseful, the point is, he’s not talking the way people–especially men–are supposed to talk in public. You could say he’s using his inside voice, pouring his heart out to a lover or close friend. If this saga was unfolding in France, he’d be using “tu”–the intimate pronoun–to address reporters. Even videos of him seem intimate. He leans in and huddles up to the microphone, bows his head, lowers his eye lids, and shrugs ever so slightly. His voice is low, hoarse, and–dare I say–sultry.

The private him makes us uncomfortable because we’re not imembers of his inner circle and we know we shouldn’t be listening.  We don’t talk that way to strangers (or consequential strangers, for that matter) and he shouldn’t either. TMI, even in the digital age.

I served in the Air Force for 28 years, and one of the first things I was taught was to greet everyone, regardless of rank.  This simple act establishes a connection–whether it’s between spouses or strangers–that really does make a difference. I hope this catches on.

Another talked about a visit to China where he’d practiced saying ni hao to anyone he encountered.  At first he assumed that because most passersby responded with a smile, that Chinese people were more friendly than Americans.  Then he tested  his assumption:

Back at home, I read Joe Kita’s article and decided to try it here.  Guess what? Americans can be just as friendly.

Naturally, I then looked up the article, “What If You Said Hello to Everyone in Your Path for  Month.”  Kita, who draws on research showing the salutary effects of social connection on health and productivity, saw the results for himself: 

After a month of doing it, I feel lighter and more connected and I have a better sense of well-being. 

If we put our minds to it, many (perhaps most?) of us can  master the smile-and-hello stage–and will be the better for it.  But Juan Mann, an Australian man, took the idea a step further with his ”free hugs campaign.” Check out his official website and video.  No researchers have been called in to measure the effects of Mann’s work, but you can’t argue his intent:  ”to reach out and hug a stranger to brighten up their lives.”